Sunday, September 27, 2015

I charged from the house and raced across the lawn, frantically waving my arms. "Stop digging! Winston, no!"

Winston, my Great Pyrenees, paused in his vigorous burial of some form of road kill and raised a muddy nose in my direction.

"I mean it!" Why hadn't I bought one of those nice, retriever-type dogs who mindlessly played fetch all day? Winston spent his time wading in the creek, digging pool-sized holes in the lawn, and―judging from the green stain―applying eau de cow pie around his ear. I crept toward him.

He playfully raised his tail over his back and dodged left.

"I'm warning you." I pointed a finger at him. Phthalo-blue watercolor rimmed my nail, making my gesture less threatening and more like I was growing a rare fungus.

Unfazed, he darted toward the line of flowering lilac bushes lining the driveway, temporarily passing from sight. How could a
hundred-and-sixty-pound canine move so fast? I circled in the other direction, slipping closer, then carefully parted the branches. No dog.

This was ridiculous. I could chase my dog until I retrieved the road kill from his mouth, or scrub it off the carpet for the next week. And it was getting dark, with Prussian-blue shadows stretching between Montana's pine-covered Bitterroot Mountains.

I glanced to my left. Winston crouched, wagging his tail. I moved toward him. He snatched his prize and shook it.

Two black hollows appeared.

I couldn't move. The air rushed from my lungs and came out in a long hiss. I patted my leg, urging the dog closer.

"Good, good. Now, question two: Where are you?" "I'm home. Near home. The edge of the woods—"

"Choose one."

"Doggone it, Dave, don't patronize me." I wanted to sling the phone across the yard, then race over to the sheriff 's office and kick Dave in the shin. "Stop being irritating and get over here."

"Ah, yes. That brings me to question three. Who's 'she'?"

"She's a skull. Or technically a cranium. Didn't I say that? She was murdered."

"Murdered? Are you sure she isn't a lost hiker or hunter?"

"Oh, for Pete's sake, Dave. She's got a neat bullet hole in her forehead, and a not-so-neat exit wound shattering the back." The dog reached a paw around my leg and attempted to snag his plaything. I tapped it out of reach with my shoe. I sincerely hoped no one was watching me play a macabre version of skull soccer with my dog. I already had a reputation for being eccentric.